


Moth

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, feelings of angst, relationship in a nutshell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a relationship, of love lost and found. John and Sherlock in a nutshell</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moth

Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. No one would argue that they were something of an odd couple – dubious flatmates, unlikely friends.

Despite the drugs bust (or maybe because of it?) Dr Watson didn’t run scared, he was an army Captain after all; he was trained to deal with the unexpected, to live with uncertainty, to adapt to situations and surroundings.

And it didn’t take long. Like a moth to a flame John was drawn to the impressive intelligence that is Sherlock Holmes, and he found himself compelled to follow that sparkling brilliance into the murky world of London’s criminal lowlife, to prevent that flame from being prematurely snuffed out.

For nearly two years he had succeeded in his self-appointed mission, and somewhere along the way he had fallen in love.

To say that Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to love was an understatement.  For all his vast intellect he was unable to express the emotions that overwhelmed him with their first kiss, and continued to question every feeling, every thrill, every breathless moment until John wanted to scream with frustration.

But then he would say or do something so totally out of character – an impromptu massage when John was tense and tired, breakfast in bed after a case was closed and they finally had the chance to rest, or simply John’s name gasped as a breathy moan, a prelude to orgasm – and John would remember why it was he fell in love with the unpredictable git.

Nearly two years.  A long time and yet, not nearly long enough.  John wanted more, had planned much more, looked forward to them being together, retired, in a little cottage somewhere away from the distractions and temptations of London and the Work.  What he had was nearly two years.

When it happened it was not a stray bullet, a knife in a darkened alley or strangulation by a Chinese tong or triad assassin – it was by his own hand.  Sherlock leapt from the roof of St Bart’s, leaving John to watch, helpless, as his body plummeted to the ground.

Dr Watson wasn’t sure if all he had studied about the anatomy of the human body could ever have prepared him for the pain of a broken heart. Friends rallied round, trying to help, but they only served to remind him of the empty space in his life and in his bed.

It took the greatest effort of willpower not to take up his gun and follow once more where Sherlock led, despite the pain this was one step he could not take.  Amazingly, the world still turned, the sun continued to rise and set, and as the days moved to weeks and the weeks to months he came to terms with being alone once more.

One more miracle.  That was all John had asked for, that first time and every subsequent time he had visited Sherlock’s grave, a miracle that would bring the joy back into his life.  

And no-one was more shocked than John Watson when, nearly two years later, he looked away from his hospital colleagues sitting round the table straight into the those quicksilver eyes he had last seen staring unseeing at the grey London sky.

Rising jerkily to his feet he ignored the concerned questions from the assembled diners, his blue eyes huge in his pale face, his head shaking from side to side as if to deny what he was seeing.  

Time seemed to slow down as John stared blindly around him. No-one else seemed to think the arrival of the tall dark haired man to be anything more than an unusual interruption, yet as the newcomer spoke John bolted for the toilets, his stomach violently rejecting the food he had just eaten, his eyes watering as a result of his body’s machinations and shock.

The sound of a door opening behind him brought his whirling thoughts to a standstill, and he listened to the familiar footsteps as they approached him.

The fight, if it could be called that was swift and entirely one sided – spinning away from the toilet stall John landed a solid roundhouse to Sherlock’s jaw, blood spraying from the split lip and cut inner cheek as the younger man crashed against the wall.  And despite the smaller man’s threatening stance, Sherlock put up no defence, just waited for the next blow to fall.

And John just stared, confused and hurt; not knowing what he should be doing or thinking, breathing heavily through his nose, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat.

In a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving John’s face, Sherlock talked. The story he told was one of love and sacrifice, of desperate chases and dangerous situations, of lonely nights and pain-filled days, and John listened, barely believing the miracle he had asked for had actually happened

Waving away the colleague that came to make sure he was alright John offered apologies to his companions, paid his share of the bill and all but dragged the errant genius out of the building.

Sherlock couldn’t resist it – he stepped up to the curb and raised his hand, and as if by magic a cab appeared.  He grinned at John. John rolled his eyes.

Back at the Baker Street flat, John made tea and sandwiches, insisting that Sherlock could eat while he told the rest of his story, drinking in the sight of his friend and lover sitting in his chair, back where he belonged, and as the young man spoke the ice around John’s heart melted.

And the thaw was complete when at last Sherlock looked up and begged forgiveness – John knew, had known almost from the first, that forgiveness would be given, freely and wholeheartedly.

Pulling the younger man into a fierce yet loving embrace John shed the last tears that Moriarty’s evil schemes would draw from him, before pushing him towards the bedroom they had shared, urging him to bed while John took time to quickly shower away the stresses of the day.

Naked and refreshed John stood in the open doorway, gazing upon a sight he never believed he would see again. Sherlock lay on the bed, covered to the waist by a thin sheet, pale skin glowing in the muted light of the bedside lamp.  As their eyes met he raised a slender arm towards the blond doctor, his teeth worrying at his full lower lip.  Taking a deep breath he spoke once more.

“Please?”

With a smile John moved forward, drawn onwards like the moth he knew himself to be, to that brightest of flames – love.


End file.
